New York Pitch Conference Reviews, Algonkian Writer Conferences, and Poetry Forums

life is as sad and bleak
as a dog's asshole
everyday I look out my window
only to see
mutton chops

who then shall bind quick
and cleave asunder life
as the parting of
cheeks?

life is a sorted affair
I cling to hope as a
sweater to the back of
Danny Tanner
and wish in vain
for Uncle Jesse

meanwhile my girlfriend's
cats vomit
and I have the shits
of hot magma

oh blessed architect
how I exult you
and pray in hot rooms
reeking the heavy scents
of adolescence
at my makeshift altar
of hot, hot
putrid gravy

The poem seems to have two things going here: a pre-adolescent amusement and preoccupation with bodily functions, and an adolescent spiritualized sexuality, maybe.

I think I can remember, back a few decades, when if I was in love and horny, anything, everything, including sick cats and a case of the shits, could be part of one intoxicating / intoxicated act of worship of my girl. That's a little funny now but maybe not so, back then.

With that in mind, below are some of the lines in your poem, re-arranged a bit and minus the....uhh... shit. (Really dude... magma?) One more comment--you meant sordid vs sorted affair?

pray in hot rooms
reeking heavy scents
of adolescence
at makeshift altars
of hot, hot, sad, and bleak
cling to hope
wish in vain
while your girlfriend's
cats vomit
and you have the shits